Chapter 2

I WAS GLAD I HAD A LONG DRIVE ALONE before I got to The Melon Patch. I had been rocked by Dad's death and by the threat of the mob. I knew that everyone I had talked to that morning thought that I had lost my marbles wanting to go up against the mob alone, or perhaps they thought I wanted to play hero. It was neither. Thirty-five or forty years ago, I thought it had been decided once and for all that a man could own a business and not have the mob muscle in and take it over. But now, after all these years, it was Ca-pone-style tactics again.

Was Frankie or Manny trying to add on to their empires? It didn't make sense. Why should they? They had more population to juice than Capone ever had. The numbers racket was paying off twice as well as forty years ago, so why should they muscle in our little businesses for two-hundred miles around? It didn't make sense. If nothing else, there was the matter of control and supervision. You can't turn hoods loose out in the boondocks and expect them to kick in. They'd be knocking you down and building themselves up, and before Ion? you'd have gang warfare that would bring in the feds.

No, it didn't make sense that Frankie or Manny was pulling this stunt, But it did make sense that some small-time hood was trying it. He could build a horseshoe-shaped empire around Chicago and then put the squeeze on both Frankie and Manny.

But who was doing it?

Such strong arm stuff as sending a gunsel against a bar owner, right in front of his customers, hadn't been seen for forty years or more. The feds were equipped to move in a helluva lot faster than they were thirty or more years ago, so why was some minor hood risking that?

If only I could find an interstate tie-in. I could bring the feds in on the caper, but until I did their bands were tied, unless such a roar Went up that there'd be a demand for new federal legislation.

What was I going to do when I got to Clodville? I had ordered Charlie to have the bar cleaned up and ready for business that night, but what would I do if they sent one or more gunsels in against me my very first night? Sure, I had those two beautiful shotguns. In a shootout like that, customers might get wounded or killed. If The Melon Patch got that kind of a reputation, how long would I have customers coming in?

Then I got a brilliant idea. Why not call a spade a spade? If they sent a gunsel in after me, he would be after me, not the customers. So the customers that got hurt or killed would be in the line of fire. So why not run a six-foot partition right down the middle and make it a western saloon. Put swinging doors on the front and swinging doors in the wall, at either end of the room, move the bar around and back it up to the center wall and then put a sign over the front swinging gate in the center wall-FOR DUDES AND LADIES.

And across the rear wall beyond the bar would be a big sign-FOR GUNSLINGERS ONLY. I'd have to check with Joe Tabor about the law, but as far as I knew it could be done. Under the sign on the rear wall would be a smaller banner-Leave Your Guns With The Bartender As You Go Out.

The dudes and the ladies would be on the left side. The brave guys would be on the stools in front of the bar. The bartender would issue each man a gun belt and a .38 or a .45 and he'd be armed while sitting there at the bar drinking. He'd know he was in danger, but, hell, he wanted the town to know that he was a big brave guy. Clodville was a town of about three thousand, give or take five hundred. In a town that size, news travels fast, so how many men would want it known all over town they were sitting in the dude section? And how many men would want it known all over town that they'd stopped going into The Melon Patch since Mike Giligan had been killed? Everybody knew Mike and loved Mike. The town would be angry. What better way for the men of the town to show their anger than to be sitting on one of the bar stools with a .38 or a .45 on his hip? And how many men would want it known around town that, although they seldom went into The Melon Patch, that they were sitting on a safe bar stool in a rival saloon when they were needed down at The Melon Patch? But, of course, I'd have to change the name of the place. How about calling it The Longhorn. Saloon?

I grinned and kicked that name around. I liked it. I'd doll up the joint like The Long Branch Saloon on Gunsmoke or the old-time saloons you see in other westerns. It would give it atmosphere. Hell, it might even be a tourist attraction. And with that kind of popular support, no gunsel would dare walk in and try something.

So what if some hood didn't make a try for me within the first month? Or the second month? How lone could I keep up the pretense that I was going to be hit?

The answer to that was, I couldn't. But I didn't worry about that too much, because if I was giving the needle to Mr. Half-Big Shot, he'd move in on me in some way. So what if there wasn't a shoot-out? If any move was made against the building, that would be sufficient to keep up the suspense.

How was I going to protect the building? It would be mine. Dad had owned it. I'd inherit it. It was down on the corner of Sycamore and Grand, and Grand was the main drag. Doc Masters, an MD and an old bachelor, had lived up over The Melon Patch for years, and had his office in the front part. So far as I knew, old Doc was still up there. He wouldn't scare easily, but if he moved out, it would be a loss. Nobody else would move in, and Dad had always said that Doc's rent had covered the taxes and upkeep on the building.

What about Jed Chandler, who had a furniture store next door? He and Dad had always been cronies and had hunted and fished and played poker together. Although Jed was a rock-ribbed church man and wouldn't touch anything stronger than tea or coffee, he had never objected to Dad having a bar next door. But if I took over, what then? And if there were shoot-outs every night, how long would he stand for that? Of course, you could ask, how long could he stand for having The Longhorn Saloon next to him? I'd have to talk to Jed as soon as I got to town. Since he and Dad were old buddies, perhaps he'd go along with the idea as long as his business wasn't jeopardized. If the mob could gun Dad down and take over his bar, there was nothing to stop them from gunning Jed down and taking over his furniture store, if they wanted to. And I'd tell Jed that. I'd also ask him if he was so gutless that he didn't want to see Dad's death avenged. I'd also have to talk to the others with stores on that corner. Directly across Grand from Dad was Sy Parker's paint store. He had expanded the year before, knocked a hole in the dividing wall, and had expanded to the next building from a hardware store. He'd also taken over the building next to that, as a warehouse. So he had half the block across the street. The other half of the block was filled by the Dispatch, Clodville's only newspaper, a weekly. The Potterfields had owned that paper since Clodville was hatched. Tom Potterfield, in his early thirties, had taken over about three months before Dad's death, when his father, old Eli, had finally died of cancer. I'd have to see young Tom as soon as I got to town. He had just graduated from college and had come back to work when I entered high school. That gives you some idea of the difference in our ages. Nevertheless, as a gay young blade, he had run with the older high school kids when they had parties down on the river or hayrides or anything like that. Sure, we girls were jail bait, but so what? That didn't stop Tom Potterfield and the rest of the Lochinvars his age. He had laid me many a time when I was a junior or a senior in high school, and during the first year after I had graduated, when I was flopping around and wondering what I was going to do.

I wondered if he had turned into a stuffed shirt, now that he was running the Dispatch. If he had, I'd knock the stuffing out of his shirt damn fast. I knew where a lot of the skeletons were buried that Tom wanted to stay buried. If he didn't want to play, I'd pass the word where some of those skeletons could be found. That was dirty pool, of course. I didn't think I'd have to, but if Tom had turned into a Colonel Blimp, I'd deflate him in one helluva hurry. Next door to Jed Chandler was a vacant lot used by Dan Northern, who had the

Ford agency down on the next corner of Grand. As for the other side of the intersection, I didn't know who might be in there. Nobody had lasted very long in any of these buildings in that block. Sycamore and Grand was the end of "the drag." Any businesses on Grand beyond Sycamore never took root, so whoever was in there on either side wouldn't be able to throw their weight around.

Dad never was in any of the churches in town except for a funeral or a wedding, but had always been careful to be on good terms with the Protestant minister and the Catholic priest who happened to be in town. Dad had always seen to it that if either church needed a new furnace or something like that, they got it', and the bill was sent to him. Sure, you might call it bribery, but no one in town thought of it that way. Because Dad, although not a church man, did not ridicule the churches or those who went to church. He said it was every man's right to do as he damn pleased, and if people wanted to go to church, then he'd see to it they didn't have to freeze when they did. That's what he told old Thad Martin, one day up in front of the bank. He yelled it at the top of his voice. When Thad had accused him of trying to bribe the church by putting in a furnace. So I didn't anticipate much opposition from the churches in town.

But, of course, one mustn't forget the Ladies' Aid of both churches. But, hell, Dad always said that those good ladies always had to find something to bitch about, that if Jesus suddenly came walking down Grand Street, those old biddies would cluck because he wasn't wearing pants and a necktie. And Dad would laugh and have everyone laughing with him, even the parson and the priest because everyone knew that Dad wasn't being sacrilegious.

Yes, everyone in Clodville liked Mike Gilligan and would miss him.

I'd been gone for nearly five years. So I hoped that the town had forgotten the Molly Gilligan who had helped put the cow on the mayor's roof one Halloween and left her to bawl in the middle of the night. Or the Molly Gilligan who had grabbed a bicycle chain and a hunk of lead pipe and had stood shoulder to shoulder with the other guys in town when the punks from Clam Junction had come over one night, to take Clodville apart. That was one bloody night. We had Doc Masters out of bed most of the night. Doc had to take nine stitches in my forehead and four in one cheek and three in the other and sew my left breast back on. And Doc Kingman, the dentist, had had to bridge in four upper teeth in front. Yeah, I was a mess. You should have seen the rest of the boys from Clodville. But we were all in better shape than the goons we sent yelping back to Clam Junction. Two of them died before morning, three of them would be in wheel chairs for the rest of their lives, and one of them was sent away to an institution for the feeble-minded after one of us had split his head open with a lead pipe. As for the rest of them, we were told, they always walked around with a dazed look, particularly when Clodville was mentioned.

Thinking back over all that, I hoped that the good people of Clodville had forgotten that Molly Gilligan. But, perhaps it was just as well that Clodville remembered the Molly Gilligan that stood shoulder to shoulder when Clam Junction tried to tear up the town, because that was the same kind of Molly Gilligan that was coming back to town now. The Molly Gilligan who wouldn't take any shoving around.

And then I thought of something else. Should The Melon Patch be kept open before Dad's funeral?

What would Dad have wanted?

I could tell you the answer to that damn fast. The show must go on.

Sure, I'd have to talk to the old heads around town and see what they thought, but why not have the funeral right there in The Melon Patch? Hide all the glasses and the booze and everything else, of course, and put a lectern on the bar and make a pulpit out of it. Let both the parson and the priest have a crack at the service. Dad had been a Mason, but if they couldn't come or cooperate with a priest in the house, they'd hear from me damn fast. This was no time for bickering; this was no time for religious differences. Mike Gilligan was dead. And I wanted the town to give out with a mighty roar of anger.

And so the first bill board welcomed me to Clodville.

The land looked fresh and green. The farmers were busy in their fields, so there must not have been too much rain. The corn was up and looking strong and good. The farmhouses looked better than when I had left Clodville. They were all painted and the barns, too. The fences had been propped up and the wire tightened and the whole appearance was one of bustling prosperity instead of slovenly indolence. Even the hogs looked better. They no longer wallowed in mud. They had a concrete home with their own clean swimming pool, The cows and the horses were fat and sleek. Yes, the entire countryside had changed a helluva lot in a little over five years. It no longer looked like a set for The Grapes of Wrath.

I began looking for familiar landmarks and scenes. The Bear Crick School, as it was called in those parts, had a new coat of white paint as I whizzed past it. So had the Hickory Grove Chapel, a country church about five miles out from Clodville. And from the chapel on in, I had one helluva time recognizing anything. When I left it, I had told Dad if he wanted to see me, to come on into Chicago. I didn't want to see that goddamn town or country again.

And yet, on that warm May afternoon, there was Molly Gilligan driving home again, to live in Clodville. But would she, after she'd settled the score for Mike Gilligan's death?

I pondered that one. I couldn't see myself buried in Clodville for the rest of my life. As I locked the wheel to get around Dead Man's Curve-having forgotten about the goddamn thing being there-I decided to live from day to day. I'd make no plans, no promises to stay in Clodville, but neither would I say that I wouldn't.

I was rolling down tree-lined Oak Street, having been duly warned by a big sign to knock it down to twenty-five or else.

I glanced to the left and the right as I crawled toward Grand. Most of the houses had spruced up since I left. They were painted and the lawns manicured and the front fences repaired and painted with each yard ablaze with rambling roses and wisteria and daffodils and jonquils and bridal wreath. It was a gorgeous sight and it smelled heavenly.

In spite of myself, I felt a tug at my heart and grudgingly admitted to myself that it seemed good to be back.

I finally hit Grand and turned right. I now had three blocks to go. And I wondered if I would choke up and bawl when I went in The Melon Patch.

But Dame Fate had a hand in that, I guess. Because the number of cars on the streets had doubled since I left town. Around and around I went and I couldn't find a single goddamn slot to park in, even east of Sycamore on Grand.

So, in disgust, I finally wheeled around and headed back up Grand. I once more rolled past the Melon

Patch and kept on going. I got clear up to the bank, two blocks west of the Melon Patch, before I found a slot. I wheeled to it and had to back and fill three times before I could get my long T-Bird in it.

I climbed out and stood on the sidewalk, looking around. I felt like a stranger. I thought of the lonely cowpoke who rode into town to avenge his father's death.

So that gave me an idea. I was ill jeans and blue chambray shirt and boots. So why not set the town on its ear?

I opened the trunk of my T-Bird and pulled out my gun belt and buckled it on. And as I did, I felt eyes staring at me. I glanced to the left. There were ten or twelve men and women across the street watching me and the crowd was growing. And on my right were four men, and more were stopping. But I ignored them.

I opened a bag and pulled my thirty-eight, spun the cylinder, and jammed it in the holster. I leaned into the trunk, opened the gun cases, and came up with the shotguns in the crooks of my arms, my pockets bulging with shells.

I slammed down the trunk lid and, ignoring everyone, I clumped to the sidewalk-and on down Grand toward the Melon Patch.

I tried to walk like John Wayne or Gary Cooper or Matt Dillon, slouching along and ignoring everyone around me with my face grim and my eyes squinting. Well, I was letting Clodville know that Molly Gilligan was back.

The word must have traveled damn fast. I had gone only one block, and had crossed Maple, and was going past Dan Northern's Ford agency, headed for the Melon Patch, when I heard someone yell, "Hey, Molly!"

Tom Potterfield came running across Grand, collar open and sleeves rolled up, ink smudges on his face.

He skidded to a stop in front of me, panting and eyeing me. "What are you aiming to do?"

"What does it look like?" I asked coldly.

"You can't go shooting up this town."

"I'm no about to. But if those goddamn hoods want to blast me, they're going to have their hands full more than they had with old Mike."

A crowd was gathering around. I ignored them and stared at Tom as if I was expecting him to draw any moment.

"You still a Chicago cop?" Tom asked.

"No. I quit this morning. I need elbow room if I'm going to hang on to the Longhorn Saloon."

Tom's eyebrows shot up. "The Longhorn? You changin' the name?"

"Yeah. If we're going to have shoot-outs in there, we might as well make a western saloon out of it."

The crowd was now filling the walk all around us. I saw familiar faces. I realized that this was a good time to start creating good will. Sure, there were bluenoses in the crowd but not many.

So I yelled, "Drinks are on the house, everybody, if you want to come on down to the Longhorn Saloon now."